


The Coffee Disbar

by FrivolousSuits



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-15 10:22:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15410835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrivolousSuits/pseuds/FrivolousSuits
Summary: "You know, for someone who doesn't cook, you make surprisingly good coffee."- Paula to Harvey, S7E13 "Inevitable"





	1. Sense of Self

**Author's Note:**

  * For [statusquo_ergo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statusquo_ergo/gifts).



> Many thanks to [statusquo_ergo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statusquo_ergo/pseuds/statusquo_ergo), without whose constant fangirling this almost certainly would not have been finished!
> 
> This fic now has [gorgeous art](https://frivoloussuits.tumblr.com/post/182669046970/fallingverses-one-phone-call-away-by-cmbing), thanks to [fallingverses](https://fallingverses.tumblr.com) on tumblr!

“Seven dollars for _that_?” Mike stares at Harold Gunderson and his 12-oz. coffee cup.

“It’s worth it,” Harold replies, widening his eyes plaintively and clutching it closer to his chest.

“Yeah,” Mike snorts, “keep telling yourself that.”

As the elevator opens he claps Harold on the back and walks through Pearson-Hardman, ignoring the glass-walled partners’ offices. He’s not here for the lawyers. He turns into the bullpen where he supposes associates once worked, now stormed by a mass of boisterous traders. As he edges around the ping-pong table and heads to his cubicle, he passes two other guys, gossiping over yet another coffee cup.

“I just got the new special,” one boasts, “a tall decaf cappuccino.”

“What’s he calling it?” the other one asks.

“‘Sense of Self,’” the first trader says with a shrug. “No idea why, but it’s the best cappuccino I’ve ever had.”

Mike closes his eyes and breathes in, willing himself not to comment on the coffee. He doesn’t succeed. “ _You’ve Got Mail_.”

“What?” The traders turn to him, frowning.

“It’s from _You’ve Got Mail_. You know, Tom Hanks and his rant against Starbucks?” As they look at him in confusion, he sighs. “ _The whole purpose of places like Starbucks is for people with no decision-making ability whatsoever to make six decisions just to buy one cup of coffee. People who don't know what the hell they're doing, or who on earth they are, can, for only $2.95, get not just a cup of coffee but an absolutely defining sense of self: Tall. Decaf. Cappuccino._ ”

“Huh.” They look back down at the coffee, slightly dazed.

Mike gestures at the cup. “Maybe the name’s ironic commentary on consumerism, maybe it’s a dig at Starbucks. Either way,” he admits, “it’s kinda clever.”

Shaking himself, he turns away to his six computer screens and swiftly reacquaints himself all the market data displayed there. Yet even as he gets down to work, his eyes drift back to the damn coffee cups, the one with the magical cappuccino, the 20oz. one that a harried-looking girl across the aisle rushes in with five minutes later. They’re all a distinctive charcoal gray embossed with gold lettering.

“The Coffee Disbar.”


	2. The Mailman

Mike walks all the way around the office building to where the coffee shop is tucked into the back of the first floor. The entrance is all sleek tinted glass, with “The Coffee Disbar” written in gilded serif font, and Mike can’t quite make out what’s inside.

He breaks down and walks in.

The first thing he notices is the music– soft jazz, the sound of a crooning sax drifting through the room. Then he takes in the black leather seating, the dark woods and granite countertops, the golden recess lighting, all rich and sumptuous. On a closer look, the shop just barely manages to skirt pretentious, thanks to small personal touches here and there. A signed baseball displayed behind glass. A case full of honest-to-god vinyl records. A surprisingly strange abstract painting of a girl and a duck hanging on the wall.

Mike rips his stare away from the duck– if it’s a duck, it’s got a green dragon’s tail, what even– to look at the menu written out neatly on a chalkboard. The drinks look normal enough, but the names make Mike tilt his head.

Not to mention the footnotes.

“Hey.”

Mike jumps a little and then turns to look at the barista, and his first thought is, _In a maneuver I am basing on my innate mathematical genius and half-year of stock market experience, I’d be willing to bet ten grand that none of your drinks are as delicious as you._

Thankfully what he says is, “Hi.”

He swiftly redirects his attention to the chalkboard, but not before stealing one long look at the barista. _Harvey_ , according to the engraved name badge on his breast pocket.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he says, “I’ll have The Tanner.”

“No, you won’t.”

Mike frowns at the barista who _just turned down his coffee order_ and finds him smirking.

“The Tanner,” he starts to explain with a voice as rich as the hazelnut syrup he offers as a premium drink topping, “is a discount version of The Mailman, available only when I get into a fight with the roaster. It’s an awful drink, reserved exclusively for people who just want the caffeine and were going to drown it in sugar anyway, and it’s entirely off-limits to new customers.”

“. . . Okay? But it’s still the cheapest thing on your menu, so–”

“So I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you The Mailman for the price of The Tanner.”

Mike raises his eyebrows. “Do you have the authority to do that?”

“I own this place.”

“In that case, I’ll take it.”

They complete a paperless transaction– Mike simply taps his phone against the reader and then signs on a tablet– and then Harvey whisks himself away to the coffee machine. A few moments later, he hands Mike one of his signature biodegradable charcoal grey cups. It's topped by a carefully sculpted cap, ringed by a cardboard sleeve and marked with a mildly legalistic disclaimer to prevent burns.

Still Mike feels too hot when he takes it, in the electric instant where his hands meet Harvey’s.

“Charging outlets are free to use now that you’ve bought something, Wi-fi password is ‘Casablanca.’”

“ _Thank you for the coffee, monsieur_ ,” Mike instantly retorts.

Harvey’s eyes light up, and Mike knows he knows they got each other’s references.

“Hey–” Mike checks there’s nobody waiting in line behind him before asking– “what’s with the names? Is it ‘Tanner’ because the roaster tanned the beans–”

“It’s ‘Tanner’ because I know a guy named ‘Tanner,’” Harvey replies dryly.

Mike blinks and then looks up at the menu– “The Boss,” “The Litt”– with fresh eyes. “Oh my god, is this The _Diss-_ bar?”

Harvey’s face splits into a wide grin. “Have a nice day, Mr. . . .”

“Mike.”

He swallows, as if savoring the taste on his tongue. “Mike.”


	3. The Secretary

”One Secretary, my way.”

“Coming right up,” replies Gretchen, another barista.

Mike looks up at the board– it’s a latte made with vanilla-flavored beans, recommended “Donna’s way” with skim, sugar, and whipped cream on the top– and then at the redhead woman at the front of the line, currently placing her order.

But his attention is stolen away a second later when Harvey emerges from the back room with a cake stand full of pastries and sets it on the counter. Mike squints to read the little sign taped on top of the cake dome:

> **The Hardman Special 1 **
> 
> Buy one drink, get one pastry free  
>  May have fruit inside!  
>  (or maybe the filling’s disappeared under suspicious circumstances)
> 
> _ 1\. Actually rejected pastries offered courtesy of Bennett Bakery, newly opened across the street. Despite cosmetic imperfections and possibly missing ingredients, they're delicious and wholly safe to eat.  
>  _

Mike laughs at the sheer absurdity of the sign, and Harvey catches his eye, also wearing a small smirk.

A moment later Harvey returns to work, but Mike can’t look away from him, his pressed white shirt and crisp pinstriped apron, his sharp features and luscious caramel skin.

“Checking out?”

“Mm-hmm,” Mike says, only to realize that he hasn’t yet chosen what he wants from the menu. He advances to the register, now manned by Harvey, and improvises: “I’ll have The Secretary, Donna’s way.”

“Excellent choice.”

As Mike pulls out his phone to pay, Harvey abruptly asks if he’d like to join the cafe loyalty program.

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“Neither did I,” the redhead pipes up.

Harvey gives her a look. “You get enough freebies as it is.” Then he turns to Mike. “It’s the typical deal. You sign up, you get points every time you buy something, you get free stuff at the milestones.”

“Can I see the terms and conditions?”

Harvey raises an eyebrow, but he quickly nods, presses some buttons on his screen, and brings up the contract. Mike rapidly skims it, aware that both Harvey and the woman are staring at him.

“It says ‘rewards include without limitation.’ What else are you considering?”

“One free drink every seventy-five dollars isn’t enough of a reward?”

“Hey, your stuff is good,” Mike admits. “Better than the coffee cart that you mysteriously drove out of business–”

“Not that mysterious,” Harvey interrupts. “I just let the police know about the marijuana sales.”

“That doesn’t endear you to me,” Mike retorts, though Harvey’s twitching smirk just might. "Anyway, your stuff is good, but still shockingly overpriced."

“If you hate my methods so much,” Harvey challenges, “why are you here again?”

“To try The Secretary.”

He doesn’t buy it. Neither does Harvey, but as Gretchen hands Mike the drink, he takes it with a dramatic _mmm_. “What can I say, I like whipped cream.”

He was just trying to sell it.

Now both of Harvey’s eyebrows are angled high enough to hurt, but he doesn’t comment on that, simply turning his attention back to the terms and conditions. “If you must know, I’m considering running a raffle. Tickets for all the members, prize is a month of free coffee.”

“One ticket per member?”

“What?”

“Is it one ticket per member, or one ticket per point, or–”

“What are you, some kind of lawyer?”

Mike takes a sip of his drink– dammit, it’s really good, almost enough to justify the double-digit price tag– and he breaks down and accepts the loyalty program’s terms. “Trader, actually.”

“Up on the fiftieth floor?”

“Yeah, how’d you know?”

Harvey snorts, shaking his head, but there’s something wistful in his expression now. “Have a nice day, Mike.”


	4. The Paralegal

**The Paralegal**

There’s a chalkboard propped up outside, at odds with the Disbar’s otherwise elegant facade. It says:

 

> **Market Crash Special!**
> 
> 50% off The Associate: Kahlua+Baileys+Coffee,1  
>  Made with Grade 1 Organic Beans Imported Fresh from Madagascar2
> 
> _ 1\. Only available after 5 to customers aged 21+  
>  2\. But who cares, it’s got alcohol in it! _

Mike lets out a laugh at that and goes inside, and for the first time he’s starting to see how Harvey stays in business. Though it’s mid-evening the cafe’s humming with activity, there’s eight people in line, and Harvey and Gretchen are efficiently darting around behind the counter to keep things moving. With a weary sigh, Mike gets in line.

“An Associate for you?” Harvey asks when he makes it to the front. “I assume the crash hit Stu hard–”

“No, I’ve gotta stay up all night.”

He winces. “Wanna try The Paralegal?”

“With four shots of espresso, please.”

“There’s a disclaimer form when you go over three.”

Mike raises his eyebrows.

“I want to protect customers from heart palpitations,” Harvey explains, adding innocently, “They tend to cut down on coffee afterwards, it’s bad for business.”

Mike bursts out laughing. “So it’s not that you care about anyone.”

Harvey gives him a shiny grin. “Beneath my customer service smile is a bottomless pool of rage.”

Mike signs the form, takes his cup of caffeine, and flees the crowded shop. Even as he settles back into his colorless cubicle, he’s still chuckling.


	5. The Partner

Mike finishes work at 4:12 the next morning, and he drags himself downstairs into the chilly night air, only to find that his bike, parked under a typically secure lamppost at the back of the building, has been stripped for parts. He groans and staggers back, leaning against the building. He’ll just take a moment to regroup, to figure out how to get his bike repaired and then to weigh the pros and cons of trying to take the L back to Brooklyn vs. braving the bus system vs. giving up his dignity and calling an Uber . . .

“Mike?” Harvey’s voice startles him awake; the sun rose at some point. Mike pushes himself away from the wall and sways for a second before Harvey claps a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. “Hey, come inside.”

Mike blinks owlishly and lets Harvey lead him into the shop. He drops down on a particularly plush armchair while Harvey starts setting up for the day, flicking on the lights, turning on the machinery. Soon the warm aroma of roasting coffee enfolds Mike.

“Here.” Harvey rouses Mike again, this time by placing a glass of mineral water by him. “You want something more substantial to drink?”

“Um.” Mike scrunches up his forehead. “I’m dismissed from work for today, so maybe The Associate?”

“. . . It is technically after 5, so I’ll make an exception.” He returns to the counter.

“You really should fine-tune your wording,” Mike calls after him.

Harvey snorts, now bending down and plucking the Baileys from its place under the counter before abruptly stopping. “Any chance you want a promotion?”

“The Partner?”

“Damn right.”

“It’s expensive.”

“I’ll waive the buy-in,” Harvey chuckles. “Same price as a half-off Associate.”

“Sure.”

Harvey grins, trading the Baileys for Macallan.

The drink arrives by Mike a few minutes later. It’s unfairly pretty, topped with whiskey-laced whipped cream and what the menu identifies only as “white powder.” Mike gives it an exploratory lick and finds it’s vanilla-flavored sugar. 

“Thanks for taking me in this early,” he murmurs, gratefully sipping the warm drink.

“I’d lose customers if I left stray puppies outside,” Harvey says, with a smile too gentle for the words.


	6. The Litt?

It’s a busy day at the coffee shop, not least because Gretchen’s handling almost all the customers by herself. Harvey’s tied up handling one particularly high-maintenance non-customer.

“Look, if you aren’t going to order something, you should stop holding up the line–”

“When I could stay here and block these poor souls from your no-doubt sub-par beverages? I think not!”

“Do you want me to call security?”

“I want you to pay attention to the goddamn cease-and-desist order I sent to stop you from selling abominable iced coffee under the name ‘The Litt.’”

“And break Norma’s heart? You know how attached she is–”

“She swans in late every morning with 24 ounces' worth, it’s hell! Harvey, I’m telling you–”

“I hear you, and guess what? Your cease and desist letter is complete and utter–” Harvey shoots a look at a little girl with pigtails waiting in line with her grandmother– “hogwash.”

“Not anymore.” The non-customer gives him a slightly frightening toothy grin. “I just trademarked ‘The Litt,’ it’s on a set of coffee mugs I’m selling now, and your coffee drink clearly infringes–”

“Good thing I’m not selling The Litt anymore.”

“ _What_?” the man squawks. “That’s one right there.”

At exactly that moment, Gretchen hands Mike the special-offer drink he’s trying out with his loyalty program points– iced coffee swirled with prune syrup and topped with raspberry bran crumbles, truly an obnoxious concoction even by Disbar standards.

“That’s not The Litt anymore,” Harvey smugly replies. “That’s The Louis.”

Even as the man– presumably Louis Litt– is escorted from the premises by a strikingly unsurprised security guard, Mike feels the lightbulb switching on in his head. Harvey talks like a lawyer more often than not, what with the disclaimers and terms and conditions and cease-and-desist agreements. Is he just appealing to the building’s many corporate lawyers with all his legalistic naming conventions? Is it really just a particularly quirky marketing schtick? Or is law a genuine part of his history?

Mike gets out of the way, Harvey’s got enough work dealing with the restless crowd of customers. He returns to his cubicle, happy in spite of his overly fruity drink, and finally types “harvey new york disbar” into Google.

Twenty minutes later, he decides to swear off coffee.


	7. Demi-capu

Next morning’s bone-deep weariness stops Mike from giving up coffee entirely, but he settles for a drink from the break room’s coffee maker. It’s a high-end machine, lots of fancy buttons and options, but the resulting cup doesn’t taste like much of anything.

He’s still exhausted afterwards.

He hurls himself into his work, staring at graphs and Excel sheets. When all the rows start to run together, he throws back another coffee and pretends it’s just the lack of caffeine that’s weighing him down.

The subject line of an email informs him that the Disbar’s serving up a new limited-time offer: a half-portion cappuccino, or as Harvey puts it, “A demi-capu, as ordered.”

 _Notting Hill_. Though it’s a nice reference, Mike deletes the email without opening it.

By Friday he’s regressed to Red Bull.

Wednesday morning, he’s notified that Harvey’s finally run that hypothetical raffle and awarded Mike thirty days of free coffee, one drink of any kind everyday, if he’ll only come claim his prize in person sometime in the next week. The next Wednesday comes and goes, and Mike’s almost resigned himself to spending the rest of his life alone with stale coffee pods.

Thursday night he’s stuck in the office long past market closing, typing endless queries into the firm’s trading database. It’s then that a redheaded angel appears with a charcoal gray cup of coffee. “One demi-capu, brewed especially for an overworked trader.”

Mike squints up at her. “I didn’t order one.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need it.” She reaches over the wall of his cubicle and places it on his desk.

He doesn’t touch it.

“What happened?” she asks gently.

“Who _are_ you, exactly?”

“Donna.”

“Like–”

“Like Donna’s way.”

He nods slowly and then shrugs. “I just decided to quit coffee.”

She pointedly peers into his trash can, with two stained, empty coffee cups from the break room inside it.

“Fine,” he snaps. “You want the real story? I finally figured out that Harvey used to be a lawyer here.”

Donna raises an eyebrow. “You mean the name ‘Disbar’ didn’t give it away?”

“I thought it was just theming. A cash grab.”

“So he was a lawyer,” she says, leaning forward with a frown. “What’s the problem? You work for a hedge fund, you can’t be against all corporate–”

“I’m an orphan,” Mike interrupts coolly. “Because my parents died in a car crash.”

Donna’s eyes widen as she understands what he’s not saying. “Okay, I admit he got disbarred over the Coastal Motors case–”

“Because he buried evidence that his client _killed a man in a car crash_.” Mike scoffs, “Look, I’m glad he’s landed on his feet with this cute little coffee shop, but I’m not giving him one more minute of my time.”

“He didn’t do it,” Donna replies sharply.

“Then he would have proved that at trial.”

“Trials are dangerous. The firm was in a precarious place, Hardman pressured him to save it from being dragged through the mud–”

“So Harvey admitted he was involved in murder to save the firm?” Mike shakes his head. “I don’t buy it.”

“He did it to save Jessica Pearson, who was about to lose control of the entire place.”

“She lost control anyway!”

Mike’s not entirely up to date with the politics of the firm, but he knows a hedge fund by all rights shouldn’t be smack in the middle of it. The traders are only here because Daniel Hardman is head of the firm and a bad one at that, plunging it into such crippling financial woes that it had to rent out the heart of its office space to Stu Buzzini.

“Not quite,” Donna corrects. “She’s still in the firm, and as long as she is nobody can count her out.”

“The fact remains that Travis Tanner credibly accused Harvey of a moral atrocity–”

“I know Harvey,” Donna retorts. “He’s a good person, and he was a rigorously ethical lawyer. He occasionally walked right up to lines, but he never crossed them.”

Mike sags back into his chair, suddenly out of fight. “Why are you even here?”

“He needs me to be.”

“Why?”

“Because he cares about you, Mike.”

Mike huffs, rubbing his forehead. “That’s just his customer service smile.”

“I was his secretary for almost a decade, I am intimately acquainted with his customer service smile. Trust me when I say that’s not how he looks at you.”

God, he wants to believe her.

Eventually she sighs and pulls back. “I can’t make you care about him, but I do ask that you not waste that perfectly good coffee. Take off the cap first, he made it special.”

She turns around and strides away. After a minute of staring down the coffee cup, he gives up and opens the lid.

In the foam he finds a perfectly poured heart.


	8. The Closer

“I’ll take a slice of The Boss.”

Harvey cuts a particularly large slice of angel’s food cake, slides it onto a plate, and hands it to none other than Jessica Pearson. They trade smiles– though not typical customer service smiles, Mike’s starting to differentiate– and then Jessica pays and drops a bill into Harvey’s tip jar, neatly labeled “Pro Bono.”

“See,” he boasts, “I did finally get into working pro bono, just like you wanted–”

“Don’t you dare.” She tries to glare at him but ends up chuckling.

Normally the shop is deserted at this hour, but today there’s a long line, as if the morning rush never ended. Mike notes with interest that most of the customers aren’t even paying; they’re just flashing their badges at Harvey and getting free stuff. 

When Mike gets near the front, Gretchen quietly takes over the register, and Harvey moves away to talk to him over the counter. Mike steps out of line to meet him.

“You came back.” Harvey breaks the silence, voice soft with wonder.

“I did.” Mike shifts from one foot to the other. “I may have snuck into the firm’s file room and read through all your old cases.”

Harvey raises an eyebrow. “What’d you find?”

“Logically speaking, I still can’t be sure what happened with Coastal Motors, but everything else looks completely clean, so I do believe you were innocent.” He takes a deep breath. “I also found that you were a really brilliant lawyer.”

“. . . I know.”

“And,” Mike says, as gently as he can, “you’re just as brilliant as a coffee shop owner.”

His eyes glint. “Of course I am. Now, what would you like today?”

“Can I get it for free?”

“Sadly, no.”

“How come you’re giving handouts to everyone else?”

Harvey smiles at him. “Because Jessica’s making a play for the firm again, and I’m backing her. Free Disbar coffee versus pineapple, I’m bound to win.”

Mike has no idea what that means, but his enthusiasm is catching. “In that case, I’ll take a plain Closer.”

Simple excellent coffee just like the Mailman, except the Closer’s served ice-cold.

“Coming right up. And screw the rules, I’ll even let you redeem your free month now.”

“Seriously? Aren’t you supposed to be a ruthless vampire?”

Harvey grins at him, and no, that’s not just his customer service smile. “I make exceptions for you, kid.”


	9. The Special

That month, Mike drops by the coffee shop more and more. Sometimes he doesn’t even buy a drink; he just snacks on outrageously marked-up pastries from Bennett Bakery and chats with Harvey. In this way he learns about how Harvey had previous experience in the restaurant industry, thanks to both his legal practice and his side work helping his brother open a place up in Boston, and how he almost certainly blackmailed David Fox into knocking fifty percent off the coffee shop’s rent. In return, Mike tells Harvey the story of how he managed to get hired at Stu’s hedge fund without a college degree– the whole story, faulty briefcase and all. Mike half-expects to be kicked out of the shop after that, seeing how Harvey turned the coffee cart guy in to the police, but he takes it surprisingly well.

“Don’t worry about the coffee cart guy,” Harvey assures him on a later date, “he had blackmail material on half of Pearson-Hardman. He got top-notch legal representation pro bono.”

“That’s . . . good?”

“It is. Speaking of which, do you know of any good replacements?”

". . . For his coffee?"

"Hm, no."

Mike’s eyes bug out.

* * *

 

“Christ, did you see the new special?”

“I _bought_ the new special.” Another woman in the elevator takes a long sip from a tiny cup and moans. “It should be illegal for something to taste this good.”

Mike’s curiosity is piqued, but he keeps from immediately running downstairs. Instead, he settles into his cubicle and pretends to work until the morning rush fades. Like clockwork, he sneaks back downstairs at 10:30 and hurries down and around the building, where the chalkboard’s propped up right outside the door:

 

>  
> 
> **New Special: The Mike!**
> 
> Details inside. Available only while supplies last.

 

Oh.

Mike stops still for a moment, goggling at the sign, scrambling to imagine what kind of coffee he’d be. The two most likely possibilities are complete opposites– either he’s a super-sweet frappuccino or an espresso even more concentrated than The Paralegal . . .

Or he’s not a coffee at all.

“The Mike,” a framed sign announces inside, is a “rich, unsweetened hot chocolate flavored with fleur de sel and topped with deluxe whipped cream.”

Harvey’s serving it in tiny shot glasses, fifteen dollars each, and Mike marches right up to the counter and asks, “What did I do wrong?”

Harvey pauses pouring beans into the grinder to answer, “I have no context, but I’m going to say ‘nothing.’”

“Then how,” Mike exclaims, pointing at the sign, “is _this_ The Mike? You really think I’m bitter, salty, and overpriced?”

“I think the exact opposite.” Harvey puts down the beans, trying and failing to repress his smile, and grabs a shot glass to start preparing the special. “People think 100% chocolate tastes like medicine, but at its best there’s not even a hint of bitterness. It’s actually–” he pours the thick chocolate into a shot glass, filling it almost three-quarters of the way up– “pure, intense, unusual, and extremely decadent.” He dips a teaspoon into a small bowl of salt crystals. “Now I add salt, not enough to overpower it, just enough to give the cacao bite. And finally we have the whipped cream, which is technically fraudulent.”

“Wait, _what_?”

“It claims it’s cream. It’s not.”

“Are you using Cool Whip?”

Harvey shoots him a scowl so horrified Mike bursts out laughing. “I’ll have you know I’m using farm-fresh mascarpone cheese that I whipped by hand. It doesn’t officially qualify as cream, but it’s ten times better.”

Harvey carefully tops the drink with the fraudulent cream, swirling it precariously high, and then hands over the exquisite drink. Mike sucks up all the cream in one go– Harvey rolls his eyes– and then he takes a careful sip of the drink itself.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Perfect, isn’t it?” Harvey murmurs, his eyes lingering on Mike’s lips. Then they flicker up. “And in limited supply. It’s hard to obtain, even for me.”

“You know, if you just asked me on a date, I would totally say yes.”

Harvey’s face splits into a grin. “Good to know.”

“Are you asking?”

“Obviously. After all–” he turns back to his coffee grinder, but Mike can hear his smirk– “I’d bet you’re more delicious than anything _I’ll_ ever concoct.”


End file.
